Reality
by The Phantom Parisienne
Summary: Rated for repeated use of the word "prostitute." When I get mad at the lack of quality stories here on FFN, I start writing stories: mean parody stories. Inspired by Christine Persephone. Take a hint, Mary-Sues!


Disclaimer: I don't own The Phantom of the Opera. 

Author's note: Well, after examining the recent updates here at the Phantom part of FanFiction.Net, and getting disgusted (well, for the most part), I decided to write a little story. I hope you like it.

All present-day Opéra scenes are based on the truth: I was there.

This is all a parody, so do not take it seriously. There are a number of things that she does wrong (going to the Grand Staircase without paying, for instance, and going into Box Five ((which is noticeably CLOSED))), and they're done on purpose.

Many thanks to Christine Persephone. "Epitome of life" line used courtesy of you.

All of Mary-Sue's stupidities and rudenesses are intentional. And if there's a typo, blame it on her.

Michael Crawford line used courtesy of CGG & TPP RP Company Incorporated.

~

Reality

by The Phantom Parisienne

It was an ordinary day for Mary-Sue: she woke, took fifteen minutes to perfectly dress and comb her hair and apply makeup, and was out of the door to the Opéra. She had been in Paris for the past two weeks, and had been to the Opéra daily. But today, something new was to happen. Something... _unexpected._

Her camera was stolen by a pickpocket.

The next day, she was a bit miffed about the loss from the previous day, but decided to haul herself to the Opéra again, like she did every day. Tiredly, as she climbed the stairs to daylight from the Métro station, the magnificent building came into view. Her oh-so-perfect features brightened and she dashed across the street, narrowly missing being hit by a car and having several cab drivers yell French obscenities at her. She ignored them, despite speaking fluent French.

The strong winds had no effect on her long, blonde hair, which was pulled back into a perfect ponytail by a vivid red scrunchie. Her amethyst eyes surveyed the building and she skipped into the area where the Grand Staircase. Feeling reckless (she didn't pay the several Euros required for entrance to the Opéra, and couldn't even explain how she seductively sneaked in to herself the next day), she dashed up them and straight to Box Five. Nothing else really interested her; why should it? The exquisite architecture and beautiful stage was meaningless: all joy lay in a couple of plush chairs and a pillar. She pulled a safety-pin from her pocket and picked the lock on the door. Gracefully she walked in and sunk into a chair, smelling the plush with great delight.

Footsteps! Behind her; she had to leave before she was caught in Box Five... In a frenzy, as she spun for the door, she tripped flat on her face over the chair and knew nothing more than inky blackness.

"Wake up! Wake up," a voice said, distinctly in French. The voice had a distinctly velvety antique taste about it, and was definitely a woman's... "What are you doing? This is the Phantom's box! You cannot be in here!"

The woman's face swam into Mary-Sue's vision. Madame Giry, she whispered to herself. Her black eyes stared into Mary-Sue's purple ones.

_She looks like a prostitute_! Madame Giry thought disapprovingly_. Trousers?! Such revealing clothing?!_

"Oh!" She sat up suddenly and rubbed her temples. 

"You fell, mademoiselle, and you're in the Phantom's box... I cannot even fathom why. We must leave: it is not safe to stay here long and invoke the Ghost's wrath." She looked about.

"What are you... oh." She shook her head as if to wake herself from a trance.

Madame Giry took her by the arms and led her out of the box. Not much was changed, Mary-Sue noted, pleased. The passers-by were certainly clothed differently than in 2004, but that was to be expected! It had happened... the dream of every Phan. And it was happening to her.

Dazed, she exited the box.

Meg half-danced in from the stairs at the end of the left side of the rotunda. "Mother! Who is _that_?" She gave a disapproving sniff. _A prostitute!_ she thought. _And in our beloved Opéra, too... What a disgrace!_

"I don't know," Madame Giry replied, with an equally miffed air.

"Mary-Sue," she replied genially, shaking their hands. Madame Giry and Meg exchanged one of those secret mother-daughter looks that outsiders cannot even begin to understand.

"Meg, the ballet has to rehearse," she said detachedly.

"Wait! Aren't you going to show me Christine's dressing-room? The mirror? How to fit in? How to do _everything_?" Mary-Sue was puzzled: why wasn't it turning out like it was supposed to?

"We must go," Meg said hurriedly, and she skipped off, her mother trailing behind.

Paris was _not_ the bundle of laughter it had been earlier. Well, Paris _hadn't_ been a bundle of laughter anyway, but she liked to pretend it was... Mary-Sue had seen the aftermath of the New Year brawl on the Avenue des Champs-Élysées, the wreckage on that street, pickpockets, some homeless people, and a lot of things she would rather not have seen. 

She was only kidding herself.

And, to infuriate her further, a man whom she did not like popped in. He too eyed her suspiciously. _She looks like a prostitute_! he thought to himself as he rushed in.

"Have you seen Christine?" the innocent youth asked, blue eyes twinkling. He was by no means ugly: he was quite handsome in a boyish, young way. The viscount Raoul de Chagny bothered her for some reason she couldn't name: whether it was the hype from fellow Phans, or her own personal misinterpretation of the book, she refused to look past the perfect appearance and into the warm, pure heart of the epitome of life, the Vicomte. "I'm sure I saw her come this way..."

"No, I haven't seen Christine," she spat. He looked taken aback by the utter harshness of the scantily-clad girl.

"Are you sure? About five feet tall, blue eyes, dark curly hair...?"

"No!" She rubbed her head.

"Well... thank you anyway, mademoiselle." Giving her another strange look, he dashed off in another direction, hat and hair askew.

She seethed, with no real reason to loathe the young man who only wanted to look out for a certain young soprano.

Mary-Sue was by then tired of this. Where was Erik? Every good story had Erik in it, and her life most certainly was an excellent story! (Or so she thought). Standing outside of Box Five was not going to quicken his arrival, she told herself, so she decided to take matters into her own hands. Just as she was about to open Box Five, she was interrupted again.

A small woman, with ringlets barely tied back by a blue ribbon, wearing a blue dress, daintily walked in, eyeing Mary-Sue with curiosity and shock. _She looks like a prostitute_! Christine told herself, blinking rapidly. "Hullo, I was wondering if you've seen a man about six feet tall, wearing dress clothes, with blonde hair and blue eyes... about twenty years old? Name of Raoul. I was looking for him, and—"

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," Mary-Sue replied, rolling her purple eyes, tossing her mane of hair.

Christine almost jumped back. "Oh."

"He went _that_ way," she said, pointing in the opposite direction of where Raoul had rushed off to.

"Thank you very much." She bounded off.

"Parisian sopranos," she muttered angrily before storming into Box Five and throwing herself into a chair, rubbing her head. Sometime later, a voice was to wake her from a half-slumber...

Inside the pillar, there was a very angry Opera Ghost, and he was not going to treat this... _prostitute_ ... nicely. She was invading _his_ box: she had no right to be there. The Opera Ghost was not a happy Ghost.

He surveyed her, eyebrow raised underneath his mask. "You!"

"Huh?" Lethargic and her trashy makeup smeared all over her face, she jerked up and stared around: the voice came from everywhere and nowhere.

"GET OUT OF MY BOX!!" he thundered.

"ERIK!" she squealed.

"Get. Out. Now." 

"ERIK! Where are you?" She started dashing around the box, looking utterly hideous.

"..." 

A knock at the door. Mary-Sue tumbled over and the chair flipped with her. "Owwwww," she moaned. Why wasn't this going the way it was supposed to?! She was waking up. Waking up!? What had happened!?

"Open up in the name of the law!"

"Whuh...."

"Open up! Or we'll break the door down!"

She was lying on her back: the mural on the ceiling, where the chandelier was, was morphing from the half-clothed angels to a modern painted roof with depictions of... wait... what were those? She squinted.

The door burst open.

"You're under arrest!"

"No! Don't take me away!" she screamed, rolling her eyes madly. "Erik! Help me!"

Right away she could tell that the officers were the police officers of 2004: they had rifles and were clothed in the usual attire for a gendarme. The police officers exchanged looks. "Come with us, mademoiselle... you're under arrest."

"PLEASE! LET ME GO!"

"You entered this place without paying; you broke into the property of the Opéra; you vandalised Box Five —" it was true, the box was now a mess: chair flipped over, pillar cracked, carpet scuffed and dirty "—and you are coming with us."

"I'm American! What are you going to do to me? Where's Erik! Help!" she screeched; they thought her a madwoman. "I swear he's here! The Phantom! He'll help me! Let me go! I just want to go home! I didn't do anything."

"And this young boy here says you stole his camera." The pickpocket from before was grinning broadly, brandishing her camera like a knife.

Her eyes bugged out of her head. "But he has it!"

"Did you not hear me? I said _tried_ to steal his camera..."

"Huh?? I'm going insane!" She screamed.

"You'll be better later."

Mary-Sue was taken to live out the rest of her days in a high-security asylum for the insane off of the coast of France where not even Michael Crawford could reach her.  
  
--  
  
Author's notes: The Michael Crawford line was a direct allusion to an RP between a friend and myself, in which Michael Crawford had mad secret-agent/escape skills and managed to escape a high security cell. Don't ask me how. He just could.

Please review! 


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